


Interlude

by ThreeWhiskeyLunch



Series: Madness Because The Reasons Don't Make Sense [4]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, M/M, Rare Pairings, Scent Marking, Smut, Vaksani, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3352109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/pseuds/ThreeWhiskeyLunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whether literal or metaphorical, Garrus highly enjoys peeling away Zaeed's layers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to Rhys Chatham's amazing “A Crimson Grail” while writing this. If you want to play along, it's available   
> [ here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f0WaNVgJqCU)
> 
>  
> 
> Happy Goddamn Valentine's Day.

He wants to peel away the layers.  
  
The first is easy. The hard shell of Zaeed's armor, an exoskeleton in an array of sizes and shapes. All familiar and yet disjointed, each piece reflecting the shape of the body that it covers. Not a mirror, but a shadow of the muscular arm, the length of leg, the curved back. Each piece is removed and set aside,  carefully and without haste. The way soldiers are taught to take care of their armor. Meticulous and respectful of the protection each piece contributes to the whole.  
  
He has time and he takes it. Appreciates the slow unveiling of the body that he is slowly revealing underneath, breathes in the scent of him: sweat, blood, gun oil, energy. The man watches with keen eyes that follow his movements. Eyes that sparkle with amusement and need. He waits and watches. If he is impatient, he doesn’t say.  
  
The second layer is also easy. The undersuit, matt black, form fitting in two pieces. He stands behind him, slides his hands under the top piece up the man’s back, pushing the suit as his fingers travel from the dip of his lower back up along the spine to the twin shoulder blades. Arms are raised as he pulls the suit up and over his head and tosses it aside to land somewhere near the stacked armor. He allows himself the luxury of scanning over the back, marking each scar and muscle and tattoo, counting them out in an inventory of elements to be reviewed later with fingers and tongue.  
  
He steps closer, enough to just feel the warmth that radiates from the body. His fingers find their way down into the waistband on either side of the man’s hips, slipping his thumb over each side to catch the fabric and lowers himself as he pushes the tight-fitting lining down over hips and waist. His mouth plates skim over the surface of skin, barely touching, teasing the tiny hairs to stand as his breath wakes them to attention, small dots of flesh raising under each one. On his knees now, he can’t resist brushing his mandible softly against the curve of buttock in front of him before releasing first one leg and then the other from the confines of the suit. The man’s hand rests briefly on his shoulder, steadying himself as he steps, lifting one leg and then the other. The fingers brush lightly over his plates when they release, toying with his tender hide. Then the man straightens, looks over his shoulder and down, catching mismatched eyes with his blue ones.  
  
The man grins.  
  
The next layer is more difficult, must be coaxed into showing itself. Encouraged and whispered to. Enticed. He encloses one leg within the circle of his hands, glides his fingers up slowly, feels the muscles shift underneath his touch, the prickle of coarser hair. He shifts one hand to the other leg, moves both hands slowly over firm calves to the knees. Up hardened thighs, back to the waist and hips, one hand roaming over the beloved dimples, the pad of his finger rotating slightly over each before trailing a path to the central divide between his curved cheeks. Slowly down, lightly touching, gently teasing. One hand cups the contour of a cheek, then around a hip to clasp fondly, encouraging the man to turn.  
  
Which he does. The man looks down, fingers tracing over his crest slowly, a thumb rubs affectionately between the ridges of his fringe knowing he can’t help but close his eyes and purr at the touch. He takes the hand in his and moves it back to the man’s side, chides him softly in his subharmonics. The man laughs quietly, lets him continue unimpeded. He resumes tracing over the legs, the knees, palms of his hands skimming just over his lover’s flesh. His gaze is drawn to the man’s growing erection. He blows a current of air over it, watches with satisfaction as it pulses, but otherwise ignores it and the sack that hangs behind in favor of moving his fingers up over hip bones, the vee of muscles below his stomach, the strange little nub that he worries at with a finger until the man closes his hand over his.  
  
Again, he removes the hand and places it back at the man’s side. Patting it gently to remind it to stay still. He stands then, hears the man’s sighing breath tinged with a quiet, longing moan. He smiles, mandibles spreading wide in a promise of things to come, leads the man to the bed and encourages him to lay back, relax. The next layer is still to be revealed.  
  
The man watches silently as he removes his own clothing, peeling back his shirt, letting it slip down his arms and over fingers in a cascade of flowing fabric. Next he releases the clasp of his trousers, parts them slowly, his eyes on the man’s. His lover smirks, greedily watching the strip tease, eyes sparkling with amusement until he reveals his pelvic plates already dewy with his natural oils, loosened with desire, just barely spreading. His gaze returns, heated, lustful. He senses the man’s growing impatience, slows his movements even further as he removes the trousers, carefully over his spurs first, then over feet to be added to the collection of discarded clothing on the floor.  
  
This time, as his hands skim over the man’s legs, he adds the flick of his tongue, the nibble of mouth plates, a kiss to his ankle, his knee. He rubs his crest on the flesh, releasing his scent mark on the man, rubs the oil in with gentle fingers. He moves up languid, unhurried. Stalking over his lover’s body with deliberate intention. Marking him as he goes. Also this time, as he passes the proud cock, he does not resist the urge to lap gently at the vein just underneath, to taste the drop of moisture that glimmers on the tip. The man breathes a harsh, ragged breath and he sees his hands fist the sheets briefly, the body tensing as a surge passes through him. He watches the man as his eyes close, his mouth open in a silent gasp of longing. Mandibles flick, pleased with the reaction, and he returns his attention to the man’s hardening length, wraps his tongue around it in a coil and pulls back deliberately, releasing the cock in a wet, slick slide of tongue.  
  
He moves on to the man’s displeasure. Both hands interfere this time, try to push him back down to his waist. He growls in his subvocals, traps the hands at the wrists with his against the bed and bends to nip at the scars that are scattered over the man’s torso. His favorite-knife wound, just under his left nipple. His least favorite-an ugly and wicked bullet wound, off-center of the nub on his belly. There are others, but these two get special attention first as he soothes the length of each one with a slow lick. He makes his way to the strange nipples, teasing with the tip of his tongue until they stand in small peaks, huffing air softly over them so they tighten even further.  
  
The man squirms, struggles briefly against being held, moans low in his throat. As he climbs further he keeps hold of the wrists, slides them across the bed until they’re even with his shoulders. He straddles the man's hips and kneels over him, holds his body still with firm thighs. The man looks up at him, eyes shining with defiance and lust, a challenge to continue. As if he would stop. As if he weren’t just getting started. He flares his mandibles back, dips his head. When he kisses him, he barely brushes against him at first. He nudges his nose along the soft lips, feels the pull of skin against plates, the slickness of his tongue as he opens his mouth, eager to be captured. His heart speeds. The next layer is close.  
  
Two things happen. He kisses him fully, invades his mouth with tongue, nips his lips with much restraint, tightens his grip on the wrists under his hands. And his cock emerges in a slick slide against the man’s stomach. He trills with need, hears the throaty moan into his mouth as the man feels him hot and wet against his skin. He nearly loses his edge then, nearly throws his control away. But he’s so entranced with the vision of the man undone that he pulls himself back, eases the pressure of the kiss. He wants to hear him say it. He wants to hear him ask, to beg.  
  
The man’s hips are rotating under him, small movements that occasionally cause his cock to rub against the plates of his ass. He groans again, murmurs against his mouth indecipherable words of longing. He feels the tendons of the wrists strain against his fingers, but doesn’t release them. There will be bruising later.  
  
He breaks the kiss, brushes his mouth plates down over the strong jaw, along the neck, seeks out the mark of his teeth at the soft, upward curve of shoulder. He licks it, feels the edges of the scar under his tongue, his heart nearly exploding with pride and possession. His man. His lover. His mate. He opens his mouth wide, hot breath warming soft skin, scrapes sharp teeth gently over the scarring. The man groans loud, hips twisting underneath him, his breathing harsh and quick.  
  
“Garrus.”  
  
He continues the trace of teeth over his shoulder, leaving a red welt in their wake. He knows now how much pressure to apply to not break the skin. Proceeds down the muscled pec to stop over the nipple, teeth just barely grazing over the risen peak. He can only imagine how it feels-his predators jaw opened over the sensitive area, the sharp sting of his teeth, the humid heat of the air from his lungs. But the surge from under him confirms it’s desired effect. The twist of wrist, the hips and back thrusting up off the bed, the legs bending, feet sliding over the sheets.  
  
“Garrus. Dammit.”  
  
Almost. He pushes down with his hips, his own dripping cock glides through the dark hair on the man’s belly, resumes his attentions over the man’s nipple. He flicks his tongue over it, so lightly that maybe it didn’t happen. Repeats the motion. Once. Twice. And again. Harder. The man is trying to control his breathing, feels the chest rise underneath him as he takes deep breaths. He raises up, looks down into the face of his lover whose eyes are dark with desire, half-lidded in lust, mouth parted just slightly. He flicks his mandibles, hums to him in his subvocals. Can’t resist the urge to slide his hips forward and back, stimulating his aching cock along the skin. The man’s eyes spark, tongue sliding over ruddy lips as he looks down, watches the blue hardness rubbing a wet trail. He repeats that action too, watches the man swallow.  
  
“Jesusfuck. Garrus. Godfuckingdamnit. Please.” His voice is thick with need.  
  
Ah. Yes. Another layer revealed.  
  
Garrus grins, complies, and begins to nudge at the next layer.  
  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: Interlude](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7820284) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan), [ThreeWhiskeyLunch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/pseuds/ThreeWhiskeyLunch)




End file.
